Page 103 of Wild Abandon

Nate looks back and forth from Ellie to Ed and then to me. His eyes fall to the floor. “Yes, sir.” He walks out of the room.

I place my hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

Ed pats my hand with his. “I’m good. You get some rest.” He releases my hand and rests his on the top of his cane.

I turn to head out the door when his voice calls out again, “It’s not his fault.”

I stop. I’m not entirely sure what he means by that, and I don’t want to have that conversation in front of Ellie.

I walk out to the hallway, but Nate isn’t there. Turning back toward the elevator bank, I exit the double doors and see Nate waiting by the elevator.

When he sees me, he looks relieved. “Ready to go?”

I nod, and we take the elevator down to the lobby. We climb into his truck, and before turning the ignition, he rubs his hands over his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay to drive?” I ask.

His eyes are heavy with the pain of a long night.

Nate shakes his head, rubbing the side of his face. “Not really,” he offers as he blinks a few times. “It’s too late for a hotel. Do…” He pauses, considering what he’s about to say. “Do you want to crash at my place? Just for a few hours?”

“Your place?” My brows shoot up. His place is above a bar in Downtown Napa.

“My home is here. Just a few blocks away,” he says.

I am too confused by the entire evening to try to understand why Nate has a place in San Francisco. And if he does, why did we stay in a hotel last weekend?

“Yeah, fine. Let’s go there,” I agree.

I watch the streetlights pass as we wind through the streets, up and down hills, and we are quickly in front of a three-story apartment structure with white eaves and bay windows. It looks like the quintessential San Francisco apartment.

He parks the car on the street and pulls the emergency brake. We get out and I follow him into his building and climb up to the third floor.

The first thing I see when I enter is a great round window with a view of San Francisco. The lights of the city, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Coit Tower are in the distance. The apartment is dark, but the light from the streetlamp pours through the glass. Dark woodwork encases the windows, doorways, and archways. A lone brown leather sofa faces a television. The air is stuffy. I try to take a deep breath, but everything feels stale.

Nate takes his jacket off and hangs it on a hook near the door. A pink track jacket hangs on the other hook with a teal scarf on top of it. Straight ahead, the kitchen is clean, aside from a pair of pink Nike running shoes on a chair and a purple Fitbit and iPod lying on the table. An empty bottle of wine is on the counter with two wine glasses in the sink.

Nate holds his hand out, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s waiting for my jacket. I shrug it off and hand it to him. He goes to hang it up next to his, and then he pauses before placing it over his.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I use as a deflection.

“Down the hall, first door on the right,” he says.

I quickly make my way away from him.

Closing the door, I rest my back against the door and take a few deep breaths before I realize I’m standing in a dark room. So much for pretending I needed to use the bathroom. I flick the light switch on, and my eyes instantly focus on the pink toothbrush in the holder. Sitting there, alone, like an artifact in a museum. The shower curtain is half open. A woman’s razor sits next to a bottle of Pantene. Men’s shampoo to the side.

I walk out of the bathroom and look to the right. A bedroom. The bed made. A flowery bedspread with an espresso headboard. A tall hutch with a men’s watch box, receipts and change carelessly thrown on the top. A wide dresser with women’s jewelry hanging from a mini bust, makeup strewed about from a morning of getting ready. A laundry basket in the corner. Pinks, blues, blacks piled high. A navy dress hanging from a hanger on the closet door. Never worn. The tag still on it.

“We had dinner plans with friends. She waited three weeks to wear that dress,” Nate says from the doorway behind me.

“It’s a nice dress,” I offer, unsure of what the appropriate thing to say is.

“They were good friends.” He jerks his head toward the hallway, clearly not wanting me in here.

I walk into the living room.

Nate’s face is highlighted when he opens the refrigerator and quickly closes it. “I don’t have anything to offer you. Water?”